


An Unexpected Visitor

by Niccolò Machiavelli (Piccolo_Machiavelli)



Series: Before the Storm, After the Fire [3]
Category: 15th Century CE RPF, 16th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, Machiavelli - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 17:52:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9196757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piccolo_Machiavelli/pseuds/Niccol%C3%B2%20Machiavelli
Summary: An unexpected visitor at Machiavelli's workplace changes his life forever.





	

It’s all over now. It was a failure, I think to myself. Codardi, the lot of them, the lot who ran off as the Spanish soldiers rained upon Prato. It was not a battle, but rather an overwhelming siege. The last stop on their way to Florence, and the town was sacked and pillaged. Soderini wouldn’t surrender, of course. He was far too proud to do that, but he was right not to. There was no better choice than to try our last resort. The Pope was behind this. I should have known. 

“You’re still thinking about Prato, aren’t you, Niccolò?” Biagio Buonaccorsi, my colleague who has stood by my side for the last fourteen years, asks as he hits my shoulder roughly. “We tried, we did all we could. In the end, we put up a fight instead of surrendering to those bastardi. Hell, that was what our forefathers would have wanted.”

The Medici. The Medici are in the city now. Medicean supporters who arrived here after the sack of Prato knocked upon our doors and demanded that Soderini resign. We sat at our desks, hushed, our hands over our mouths in complete silence. Blood had almost completely left my face before I dared to breathe again. I was sent to tell Giovanni de’ Medici that he had finally given himself up. For the first time in my life, I felt small as I looked into the eyes of someone who was part of the city, yet did not belong there. It was his city no longer, but it was his city now.

“Of course,” I answer, hardly smiling as he sits down close beside me. “They threw down their arms and ran, Biagio. They deserted us. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that they were working with the Spanish and they allowed the city to be crushed. It was all that was left to guarantee Medici entrance into Firenze. Now, they’re here, and everything hangs in the balance.”

It was the first of September when they finally rushed in. Giulio - or was it Giuliano? - followed thirteen days later. The people, as fickle as they are, took to the streets, celebrating their return with cries of the Medicean anthem. Palle, palle. I will never forget the view from the window, the view of thousands of people chanting in the Piazza as the Medici returned. There are Medici guards here now, marching in the streets and hiding around every corner. They have even taken up residence in a section of the Palazzo, and even though I cannot see their eyes, I know they are there, waiting in the darkness to strike.

“Dio mio, Niccolò, they’re not with the Spanish,” Agostino Vespucci grumbles, setting down his pen to join us. “That solution isn’t even probable. You trained these men yourself. You armed them. You took all the steps necessary; there’s no way they would have switched sides. They were loyal Florentines.” Already, I can tell he’s only half-convinced. His head turns towards the door. There is a scuffle going on below us, and someone’s nasally voice is ringing out in the hallway. “Ah, who is that?”

“They were peasants, Agostino,” Biagio reminds him. “Even though it is ridiculous to assume that a militia of nine thousand men would all switch sides, it is not unlike men to pick whichever side is winning.” The voices below us get louder, and Agostino walks towards the door to listen outside, motioning at Biagio to continue. “Per favore, don’t think too much about it.”

“Don’t think too much about it?” Sometimes, his way of thinking isn’t the best. “Any day, we could lose everything we have. This… changes things; whether or not you want to admit it is up to you. I don’t care if it sounds pessimistic or morbid. I’m just thinking realistically. We are no longer the main actors on the stage of Firenze. This might all be a fit of paranoia, I don’t know. Just… keep your eyes open,” I say to them, rubbing my hands over the spine of a book. Livy. 

“Ah, Cristo, now he’s gone mad,” Agostino mutters. “Speaking of madness, I’m being driven mad by that utter cacophony going on downstairs. I’m going to see what it’s about.” Without waiting for my objection, he turns the handle and steps outside, closing the door behind him as he leaves. 

Biagio continues staring at the door even after he leaves. “I’m worried, I’ll admit it. So is Agostino. That’s why he makes a joke out of it. He does it to lighten the mood. These are dark times we’re in, Niccolò. Dark times.” With that, he bursts into laughter, a hearty, raucous wheezing sound that I remember being startled by the first time I heard it. As tense as I am, I laugh, too. “Have we played our part? Did it all matter, in the end? What are we doing?” He sobers up suddenly and clasps his hands together. 

I try to answer, but I end up bursting into laughter again. “What’s gotten into you? Now you’re the sombre one,” I manage to utter, clapping him on the back. “Must you speak like the grave? You are far too cynical.” For a moment, the Medici are completely gone from my mind. The battles, the failures, the militia. Everything.

“My thoughts linger not on death and bloodshed,” Biagio counters, smiling at his own wit. He hasn’t changed one bit since the first day I met him. He has only grown older, but haven’t we all? I am no longer the sprightly twenty-nine year old I was when I first became Second Chancellor. “Agostino’s been gone too long. I’m going to check on him.” He gets up with a start, but I grab ahold of his arm and pull him back down.   
“Ehì where do you think you’re going? You don’t know what’s down there. He can handle himself. He’ll make his way up here whenever he-” I am cut off by the sound of harsh footsteps pounding outside the room, and the door swings open. A terrified Agostino is held with his arms behind his back by a Medicean guard. “Oh. Agostino?”

“They’ve come! It’s over, it’s over, it’s finally-” the guard roughly removes one of his hands from behind Agostino’s back and covers his mouth, muffling his frantic cries. He steps forward, shoving Agostino forward with him, his hands never leaving their positions. What’s over? What? I do not bother to ask myself. I already know.

“What is this?” Biagio asks, standing up. I do not reach to grab his arm, but I instead also rise to my feet. It’s all over now. “I see we have a visitor, Niccolò! Who are you?” Biagio approaches Agostino to assist him. I stand back, not in the least bit eager to talk to one of Giuliano - or was it Giulio? -’s cronies. 

“You, all of you. Listen to me,” the guard demands, releasing Agostino. He gasps for air, coughing loudly and rubbing his arms. Biagio grabs him and pushes him towards me, and Agostino clings onto me for a brief second before he realises what he’s doing and lets go. “The city has no need for the lot of you Soderini-sympathising rabble. Following the orders of our most Illustrious and Noble Majesty, you have all been… released. I don’t want to see any of your faces ever again.”

“W-Wait, what d-do you mean?” Agostino chokes out, balling his hands into fists. “This is my city! I’ve served her ever since I was a boy! You can’t do this!” I swat his hands with the book I’m holding. Basta, I mouth to him.

“Actually, I can.” The guard walks over to each of us and plants a piece of rolled up parchment in our hands. I tighten my hands around it so that the guard cannot see them shake. Unrolling the parchment, I scan the orders for any hints of forgery. Nothing. There is even the Medici seal on it, the seal of approval. “In addition to your release, since you are deemed to be enemies of our royal family, you are each fined one thousand florins.” One thousand florins. One thousand. Between my family’s debt and the meagre salary I’ve been paid, it’s all I have. He’s leaving me with nothing.  
“And as for you,” he continues, jabbing a finger at me, “you’re packing your bags and heading to the countryside. I don’t ever want to see you in this city again.” No, not exile. Anything but exile. I cannot bear to be away from my beloved city. 

“Surely, this is all a misunderstanding,” I attempt to reason with him. “I never supported Soderini. I was merely the Second Chancellor-”  
“You served under him and followed his every move. There wasn’t a mission you could do without his approval,” the guard argues.

“He was an obnoxious man! He almost let me die back in… in… was it 1502? 1503? One of those years! I was in Roma, festering with a terrible fever that almost killed me, and he wouldn’t let me come back to Firenze! He gave me not a florin until I begged for it!” It’s useless, yelling at the guard. Nothing I say will change his mind, and he now wears a self-satisfied smirk on his face. I’ve said too much already. 

“Does that one incident matter, when it comes to the sum of things?” he taunts, placing one hand on his blade. A schiavona. “No, of course not. You have exactly one hour to pack your things and get your asses out of here. I’ll have you thrown in the Bargello myself if you take any longer than that.” Turning on his heel, he leaves the room, not even bothering to slam the door behind him.

I stand there in complete silence, my shaking hand gripping the parchment so tightly that my knuckles turn white. What am I going to tell her? What will I say to my wife? There is nothing but a bottomless pit in my stomach and a lump in my throat. This is the end for us.

“Cazzo!” Biagio yells, and I turn to see him slam a book down on the desk that he has inhabited for almost as long as I have mine. “God, what am I going to tell them? My family? My children? Those pezzi di merda! How could they do this to us?” He turns his head to spit on the floor. “Che schifo!” 

“Biagio,” I warn him, “there’s no use. The guard could hear you, you know. I doubt he’s gone far. We’ll just have to make do with what we have left.” I reluctantly begin packing. I am nervous, and my body desperately wants me to remove myself from the situation and walk as far away from Firenze as I can manage, but my mind is gone. I move slowly, lost in my own thoughts, but the dread of the clock ticking is enough to make me quicken my pace.

“And you, Niccolò, they’re fucking exiling you! I swore I’d protect you! Biagio, we can’t let this happen! What are we doing?” Agostino hollers with tears in his eyes. He finally stops his frantic pacing to seat himself in a chair and collect his thoughts. 

“What have we done?” Biagio whispers, and I see that his face has turned a hideous shade of red. “What curse of God is this that we are thrown from our homes?” He hauls a bag full of books over his shoulder.

“It’s not a matter of what we have done, but rather a matter of what lies ahead,” I respond, picking up my last bag as I wait for the bell to toll.


End file.
